


The Moonlight Road

by Alona



Category: Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie
Genre: M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:16:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alona/pseuds/Alona
Summary: Mr. Satterthwaite visits an old friend and sees something unexpected one cold, wet night.





	The Moonlight Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wasuremono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasuremono/gifts).



"Frances is coming up by the 1:06 today. I thought I would go out to meet her." 

It was a commonplace statement, and yet in saying it Mrs. Unseld had paused in an unconscious attitude of tragedy, staring over the breakfast dishes with distant eyes. She was a tall, narrow-faced, elderly woman with something insubstantial and otherworldly about her that even country tweeds and sensible shoes could not wholly overcome. Mr. Satterthwaite, with sudden intensity, waited for his hostess to speak again. Her abstraction continued, though, and he felt pressured to speak the next cue. 

"It will be good for you to have her here," he said, weakly enough. 

Mrs. Unseld came to herself with a light sigh. "Yes," she said slowly, "yes, it will be very good to see Frances. We haven't kept in touch as much as I should have liked. So much has happened—her career—my marrying Edward—keeping up the house when he was dead—and with Mother ill—" She came to a halt with a startled look. The force of that look was heightened by her unusual eyes—very large and darkest brown, set among thick, almost transparently pale lashes. 

"I am so very sorry, Dorothy," Mr. Satterthwaite murmured. 

"She had a long, full life," said Mrs. Unseld. There was a note of distant bitterness in her voice. 

It was the recent death of Mrs. Unseld's mother that had brought Mr. Satterthwaite to Riftwold. The late Mrs. Welles had been eighty-nine years old. She had come to live with her daughter when both their husbands had died within months of each other, some thirty years back. Mr. Satterthwaite had the impression that neither Mr. Welles nor Mr. Unseld had been much regretted, though he would have scrupled to say as much to close connections of the family. 

He could just admit to himself that curiosity had played a larger role than sympathy in bringing him here. Dorothy Unseld had called him, distraught and scarcely coherent: "Mother's passed—matter of time, I know, and October's a hopeless, godless sort of month here—I have Frances coming in a few days—you know my friend, Frances Hern, from school—told her it wasn't worth the trouble, but really I'd like not to be alone now." She had not actually extended an invitation. Her distracted urgency had struck him, though, and Mr. Satterthwaite, moved by instinct or perhaps by the memory of that odd otherworldliness of hers, had bridged the gap. "Of course you must not be alone at a time like this," he had said. "I can be up tomorrow." 

He had repented almost at once, remembering that Masters would be away on holiday for the rest of the week. Since he was unwilling to entrust his car to a stranger, Mr. Satterthwaite would be obliged to go by train. But he had promised already, and Dorothy had sounded so relieved. 

As it happened Mr. Satterthwaite had not had the pleasure, so he said to Mrs. Unseld, of making Frances Hern's acquaintance, but he knew _of_ her, of course. It was his habit to know anybody who was anybody, and Frances Hern was certainly somebody. She had worked in finance for many years and had made a stunning success of it. That was enough for most of Mr. Satterthwaite's social circle to find her slightly—well, indecorous was as good a word as any for it.

Miss Hern proved to be a stocky woman with a blunt face. Her iron gray hair was in a short, modern style that suited her uncommonly well. She wore a sober traveling costume and moved as though she were trying to avoid touching any part of the house. 

"Must cost the earth to keep this place together," she remarked. She had a dry, precise voice that grated on Mr. Satterthwaite's ear. 

"I manage well enough," said Mrs. Unseld. "I call it lucky Edward never got round to tearing everything out and modernizing it. It would have been all out of date by now, and hideous, like as not." 

"I never understood," said Miss Hern, looking down at the floor, "why you wanted to go and buy this unsightly pile, here in this forsaken corner of the world." 

"I quite like this corner of the world," said Mrs. Unseld placidly. "Forsaken as it is. Though of course I understand your trip must have been difficult."

"No, that isn't what I meant at all," Miss Hern protested. She raised her head and flashed Mrs. Unseld a quick, bright smile. "I am sorry, Dolly, I never do say the right thing. It's a fine old house, and you've done good work with it, I can see that." 

Mrs. Unseld turned her head away, and it was only Mr. Satterthwaite who saw her thin face crease in a smile.

 _Oh, I do see,_ he thought, looking between them. _Dorothy? Why, yes—certainly._

He did not see what he was meant to do about it, though. As the afternoon wore on it became more and more trying to be in the house with the two women. They barely looked at each other. All their speech was made of silences and sudden starts. At dinner, which was served unreasonably early and without ceremony, Mr. Satterthwaite determinedly engaged Miss Hern in conversation about the state of the world markets. Miss Hern remained purely technical in her talk, and Mrs. Unseld did not participate in the conversation beyond an occasional wordless murmur.

The strained atmosphere began to tell on Mr. Satterthwaite's nerves; he wanted to be away from it to clear his head, and to satisfy an inwardly whispering voice: _No,_ he _will not be there,_ he had told it already, but he was really only pretending to think so, the better to let circumstances take him by surprise. Accordingly Mr. Satterthwaite announced after dinner that he was going down to the village to take in the sights. 

"There isn't much to be seen," said Mrs. Unseld. "Only the church, and that's practically on the grounds. Besides, I feel we are going to have a storm tonight." 

Mr. Satterthwaite protested—it was a fine day—but promised to hurry back if a storm threaned. 

As he walked to Riftleigh village—past the church, which was small and grim enough, and indeed very close to the house—he began to share Mrs. Unseld's prediction. The morning had been warm and sunny, but the day had turned gray since, and a sobbing wind had come up to toss the fallen leaves. A cold smell akin to a feeling blew off the dark woods that backed onto Riftwold's grounds. The anticipation of a tremendous break was thickening the rapidly cooling air. _To the village and back, then,_ he thought. 

A dark cloud of birds flew up from deep within the wood, speckling the gray sky. Mr. Satterthwaite shivered. 

A godless sort of month, Mrs. Unseld had said. That was not quite what Mr. Satterthwaite felt. There were gods in these parts, sure enough. One would have to be very brave to want to meet them, and Mr. Satterthwaite did not feel brave. 

He was thoroughly chilled and unhappy by the time he reached Riftleigh, though it was not much more than half a mile from Riftwold. There was indeed little to be seen: a single street with no buildings more impressive than the blocky post office—an uncommonly bustling spot for a village of this size, judging by the background chatter when Mrs. Unseld had telephoned from there. Mr. Satterthwaite despaired of finding somewhere to get a decent hot drink. 

But there _was_ a likely looking place—a something between a tea shop and a lounge that was called the Blue Dove. It was warmly lit and crowded, and outlined against one of the windows Mr. Satterthwaite glimpsed a very familiar dark head. 

Moments later Mr. Satterthwaite, still puffing slightly from his walk, was inside the Blue Dove, triumphantly taking a seat opposite Mr. Harley Quin. 

A smartly-dressed waitress descended on him at once. Mr. Satterthwaite asked for coffee. Already his intention of turning right back was a distant memory. 

"I cannot believe my luck, finding you here," he said happily, warmed already by the pleasure of Mr. Quin's presence. "I had so hoped—it has been far too long." 

"The good fortune is all mine," Mr. Quin said. "But what has brought you here, my friend? This village is out of your usual way." 

Mr. Satterthwaite studied Mr. Quin's handsome face curiously. "I believe you really did not expect to see me here. How unusual." 

"After all, I am not omniscient. Fate may take anyone by surprise." 

Mr. Satterthwaite had the strangest feeling he was being asked to share in some melancholy joke, but he was too taken with the ridiculous notion that he had conjured Mr. Quin here merely by wishing to see him. After the waitress had brought him his coffee, he explained that he had come to keep Mrs. Unseld company. 

"She is an old friend?" asked Mr. Quin.

"The family is—the Welles, I mean. They are distant cousins, in fact. I have known Dorothy Unseld since we were children." 

"So naturally you came rushing in her time of need." 

"Well—" began Mr. Satterthwaite. Catching the knowing look in Mr. Quin's eyes, he admitted, "We have never been particularly close. There has been little cause for contact since Dorothy's marriage. Her husband was a wealthy man, and it was generally expected at the time that they would be a big thing in London, but instead they came here and bought Riftwold and lived in perfect retirement. It was a surprise, too, that she held onto the house when her husband died. One would not have thought she had any attachment to the place, and yet here she has remained—rather like a princess in her tower awaiting her prince."

"That is a romantic view to take," said Mr. Quin—it was almost, but not quite, a question.

"I see I can get nothing past you," said Mr. Satterthwaite, as usual delighted by the receptiveness of his listener. "Yes, that is just the situation, as you will hear. I came rushing, as you put it, because of how she sounded when she called me. Quite beside herself with desperation." With self-conscious gravity, Mr. Satterthwaite added, "I knew, when I heard her, that she needed my help. Only," he finished glumly, "now that I understand, I am at a loss for how to proceed." 

Mr. Quin sat forward attentively. "I am content to listen while you work it out for yourself," he said, smiling. 

"As usual you are too kind," answered Mr. Satterthwaite, feeling all at once tremendously reassured. He launched into an outline of the situation at Riftwold. 

As he spoke he became conscious of a certain detachment in Mr. Quin's manner. He listened as appreciatively as ever but seemed to have half an ear out for some secret signal. Mr. Satterthwaite found himself listening, too, but all he heard was a thin, driving rain beginning to pelt the windows. That was most unpleasing.

"I cannot help feeling Mrs. Unseld wanted me here to—yes—to act as chaperon," Mr. Satterthwaite was saying, doubtfully. "I am, perhaps being derelict in my duty. And again, perhaps all they needed was to be left alone to reach an understanding, and I have done the best thing I could by coming here."

"Certainly I think that, since otherwise we would not have met today." Before the rather flustered Mr. Satterthwaite could answer this compliment, Mr. Quin continued: "I am afraid, now, that I have an appointment that will not wait." 

Mr. Satterthwaite said that it was quite all right, and inwardly felt monstrously cheated by the ill chance. He had been counting on another half hour of Mr. Quin's company at least. He watched Mr. Quin settle his overcoat onto his slender frame before vanishing out into the wet gloom of the street. The rain had slackened, but the wind was fiercer than ever. Its whistles and groans were insistent even over the chatter in the tea shop. 

"Just listen to it howling," a woman at the next table said in a wondering voice. 

"Always like that this time of year, ma'am," the waitress told her briskly. "Nothing to worry about." 

Mr. Satterthwaite lingered over his coffee with an idea that the weather would ease. It did not, but darkness had come, and the shop was closing up around him. He was not looking forward to the walk back. As he set out, turning up his collar against the wind, he tried to take his mind off his discomfort by thinking of Mrs. Unseld and Miss Hern. 

The trouble, he put it to himself, was that he did not see where the trouble was. Dorothy Unseld and Frances Hern were two old women, widow and spinster, beholden, it seemed, to no one. Certainly Miss Hern had mentioned no family. Dorothy had no children, and her brother had died overseas long ago. Now her mother was gone, too. What more natural than that they should choose to live together rather than face loneliness apart? Nothing seemed to stand in the way of their happiness—nothing but some quirks of their own personalities, or some history, perhaps, some ancient quarrel or darkness—

_What was that?_

Mr. Satterthwaite had so far distracted himself that it took him a long time to understand what he was seeing. 

It was full dark. Out in the darkness, away from the country road he was following, there was another road, and that road glowed with pale light. A number of people in fancy dress were gathered beside the road, some on horseback and others holding the reins of fine, proud-looking horses. Slender white hounds frisked at their feet. All these figures shone faintly with the same pale light as the road. The wind carried distorted sounds: the jingle of harness—the stamp of hooves—the rustle of cloaks—talk and laughter. 

Mr. Satterthwaite stopped, staring. He could not doubt what he was seeing, but no more could he accept it. 

He watched the riders joyfully receive a small group of more normally dressed people, who seemed to have come up from the church. The riders helped the newcomers onto spare horses. One of them, impossibly, was Dorothy Unseld. 

But no—the lines of the face were right, but this woman was not tall enough, and she did not have those startling dark eyes. If he could have brought himself to believe it, Mr. Satterthwaite would have said the woman was old Mrs. Welles, as he had seen her as a woman of thirty or forty. She was leaning down from her horse to speak to a man who had arrived with her party and had remained on foot. 

The man was Mr. Quin. 

Here some of Mr. Satterthwaite's disbelief fell away. Of course unusual events followed Mr. Quin. He listened intently to the woman on the horse. Then he answered her with an air of serene confidence. The woman smiled, and her smile was both glad and heartbreaking. 

Mr. Quin stepped back. The riders called out to him. When they were all horsed, the one who seemed to be their leader raised an arm and threw back his head in a wild cry. They were off. The horses' hooves thundered, and the hounds running alongside bayed, and the riders shouted to each other. Mr. Satterthwaite's gaze followed them almost unwillingly. He was dreadfully afraid of them without knowing why, but he longed at the same time to follow them. Their passage thrilled and overwhelmed him. Exhilaration warred with fear. He took an involuntary step forward. 

Heedless of their perplexed audience of one, the riders thundered down the glimmering road. Where the road disappeared into the wood, the dark eaves swallowed them, riders and horses and hounds, and they were gone, and all sound of them was gone. 

The cold night air was sharp. It hummed in Mr. Satterthwaite's ears like harsh music. 

He looked about himself. The glowing road was fading. Looking up, Mr. Satterthwaite saw that the light had come from a white, nearly full moon, shining through a clear spot among the clouds. Already the wind was driving the clouds across its face once more. But he was sure, deep down, that if he went looking for it, he would find no sign of that glittering road. 

He called Mr. Quin's name. 

Mr. Quin, who had been standing and looking after the company, turned his head sharply and began to walk towards him in hurried strides. For just a moment he appeared to be dressed in red and black motley. But when the last glare of moonlight faded from him, he was in the same dark overcoat that Mr. Satterthwaite had seen earlier in the evening. 

As if a spell had been broken by his voice, the strangeness of it all came home to Mr. Satterthwaite. When Mr. Quin reached him he was trembling all over and staring unseeing in the cold and the dark. He noticed dimly that the rain had stopped.

"This is not a good night for you to be out," said Mr. Quin, his expression concerned, his hand solicitously at Mr. Satterthwaite's elbow. Yet there was an unfamiliar wild note in his voice, as if it had caught an echo from the passing company. His eyes were very bright. 

"I stayed too long," Mr. Satterthwaite tried to explain. He was finding it rather difficult. He was as winded as though he had run twice the distance between house and village, and the brightness of Mr. Quin's eyes was making it difficult to look at him. 

Mr. Quin took Mr. Satterthwaite's arm. His coat, Mr. Satterthwaite noticed, was dry. "Here, lean on me. I will see you back to Riftwold."

Mr. Satterthwaite was profuse in his thanks and protested that it was not far at all from here. He was sure that he was babbling. He worried he was embarrassing Mr. Quin, but he couldn't quite keep calm enough to stop. 

"Don't think of it," said Mr. Quin, not for the first time. "You've seen things this night that mortals are not meant to see." 

At that it became easier for Mr. Satterthwaite. If he refused to answer this statement, then they could both imagine it unsaid. Gradually he focused on the road, on Mr. Quin's perfectly real warmth at his side, on anything but the last half hour. By the time they reached the house, Mr. Satterthwaite no longer needed Mr. Quin's arm to support him—but he did not mention it. 

Frances Hern, Mr. Satterthwaite thought, had said neither more nor less than Riftwold deserved when she had called it an unsightly pile. Even darkness failed to flatter the house, which combined the worst elements of half a dozen architectural styles. Still, it was welcoming enough, even with most of its windows dark, after the evening he'd had.

As they waited for a servant to come to the door, Mr. Satterthwaite kept a worried eye on Mr. Quin, who failed to disappear. 

Then the door was opened and Mr. Satterthwaite, with renewed energy, was apologizing in his most correct manner for the trouble. He simply must give his friend, who was so fortunately and unexpectedly staying in the village, a steadying drink before sending him back out into the cold. There was no need for Hill, the butler, to stay up—he would let Mr. Quin out himself. 

Hill, who was quite a young man yet (not fifty, was what Mr. Satterthwaite meant by this), affected the manner of an ancient retainer. He acquiesced to everything and murmured in a weary voice about a fire Mrs. Unseld had left burning for Mr. Satterthwaite's benefit in the study. Mr. Satterthwaite received this news joyfully. 

The shakiness brought on by the vision—which, of course, had not been a vision—had evaporated, leaving behind a heady excitement that was like giddiness, but too serious to be called that. Mr. Satterthwaite hardly noticed taking Mr. Quin by the lapel of his jacket as he led him into the little study.

"I think you were not entirely serious about that drink," Mr. Quin accused him, laughter in his voice. 

"Somehow I doubt it would steady me," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "But I would by no means be inhospitable. I do know where Mrs. Unseld keeps her liquor." 

Mr. Quin ignored this. "Do you think I am going to fly away if you let go of me?"

For Mr. Satterthwaite still had him by the lapel. The elderly gentleman felt brave with the reflected wildness of the moonlit company. Delicately, he released Mr. Quin's jacket and instead laid his hand against Mr. Quin's chest. Looking up in wonder at his own daring, Mr. Satterthwaite said, "You knew which way I would be headed. You might have warned me not to be out too late. You didn't." 

Mr. Quin bowed his head in acknowledgement and he did not move away from Mr. Satterthwaite's touch. 

"I think," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "you wished me to see—what I have seen. Am I right?"

"You are," said Mr. Quin simply. "Your impressions have a way of casting everything in the clearest light. I wished," he said wryly, "to see something of my world by that light." 

"And yet you find me speechless," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"I have no cause for disappointment. Though you may well think me selfish…" 

Mr. Satterthwaite had brought his hand up to the back of Mr. Quin's neck. Slowly, Mr. Quin dipped his head. Close to, he watched Mr. Satterthwaite with an endless, unfathomable gaze, a tragic smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You know very well I could think no such thing," said Mr. Satterthwaite, very quietly, leaning closer still. 

Then Mr. Quin kissed him—or perhaps it was the other way round. Mr. Satterthwaite's mind was filled with dark roaring, and he could not have said whether the marrow in his bones froze or burned. Then through it all he felt Mr. Quin's hand cradle his cheek, and gradually the supernatural storm gave way to purely human sensations. 

For a time the loudest sound in the room was the crackling of the flames. 

Mr. Quin's voice, when he spoke, was not quite steady. "The excitement of the hunt is still working on you," he said, smoothing back the disheveled hair that had fallen over his forehead. "I should leave you to—"

"I know what I am about," Mr. Satterthwaite broke in sharply, taking a step back and meeting Mr. Quin's eyes. He could not help feeling the comedy inherent in the situation, but it did not hold him back. 

He had seen the hunt. He had heard the names they had called, when they were shouting to Mr. Quin. He could not pretend not to understand what Mr. Quin meant when he spoke of his world. He knew it all, and he just did not care. For now he had borrowed courage from those bold, otherworldly horsemen. Well enough he knew that he was a ridiculous little old man, and yet—and yet—

"It would seem that after all one is never too old to find companionship, however strange, however unexpected. And you chose me," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I do not presume to say why, but you chose me."

Mr. Quin was watching him closely, a fond, painful smile on his face. The fire cast a bar of shadow across his eyes, but it was only shadow. They had stepped, somewhere on the road back to Riftwold, beyond the need for symbols.

"If I am wrong—but I do not think I am wrong. I expect I will forget what I saw soon enough, or set it aside as a dream. And—" For a moment Mr. Satterthwaite was too flustered to continue. Then he collected himself and went on, rushing slightly. "And, heaven knows it has been long enough since I have made such a colossal fool of myself, but I would wish to have something else to remember this night by." 

He felt his face flush and his breath tremble, but there was nothing for it but to await an answer. If he were honest with himself, the look on Mr. Quin's face was answer enough—if nothing else, he prayed he would remember that. 

"No, you are not wrong," said Mr. Quin slowly. "It seems after all I have not been selfish enough. When we met earlier, on this night of all nights, without my planning it, I could not help but see meaning in that." He took Mr. Satterthwaite by the hand. "For this night, for some hours still, you have one foot in another world. The danger is not so great, or else it is a different danger. Yes. This night—I can give you what you ask." 

A burden of awkwardness lifted from Mr. Satterthwaite, and everything became simple. Danger? He had felt danger before, it was true. He supposed he should feel it still, but now he felt only joy and anticipation. "Then let us go up, by all means. I think they have all gone to bed by now—and if not, well." With a flicker of mischief he continued: "I do not believe anyone has ever breathed a word or thought a wisp of scandal against me. I defy them to start now." 

Mr. Quin laughed. With a feeling verging on unreality, Mr. Satterthwaite took him up to his guest room, keeping one hand at the small of Mr. Quin's back. They met no one, and indeed the house might as well have been empty save for the two of them, for all the signs of life the other inhabitants gave. Mr. Satterthwaite was not sure that he was not just a trifle disappointed. 

"I think we can dispense with an audience," said Mr. Quin dryly. 

Mr. Satterthwaite, more pleased than embarrassed to be caught out, only laughed in answer. 

 

In the morning Mr. Satterthwaite was alone. He was neither surprised nor especially disappointed by this. 

It was hours past sunrise when he came down to breakfast. Hill informed him that both the ladies had already eaten and gone out. Mr. Satterthwaite ate alone. He was pleased to have a quiet space in which to fix his memories of the night before. He felt in perfect charity with the whole world, a feeling only increased by the fine weather that had followed the night's tumult. 

For there had been a storm, close on morning—he very dimly recollected it. When he went out into the garden he saw signs of it everywhere. He also saw Frances Hern, sitting by herself on an ornamental bench, smoking a cigarette with a distracted air. Mr. Satterthwaite smiled to himself. The gears had been clicking into place in his mind. He thought he had a clear picture of the problem now.

"Good morning, Miss Hern," he said, approaching her with enough deliberate rustling of fallen leaves that she would be warned. "I hope the storm did not disturb your sleep?"

"I slept like the dead, thanks all the same. And you? A quiet night?"

"Perfectly quiet," said Mr. Satterthwaite unblushingly. 

"Sit down, please. Dolly has gone to take care of a tree knocked over by the wind. Took out a fence, or something of the sort." She stubbed out her cigarette with quite unnecessary force against the bench. "There's such a lot of work involved in this country lifestyle." 

"I think," Mr. Satterthwaite began carefully, "that Mrs. Unseld has liked having the work—to keep her mind occupied."

"Now more than ever, I suppose," Miss Hern answered, her face drawn and bleak. 

"Now—well, that is a question." Mr. Satterthwaite appeared to consider. "I think, now, she will not like to stay in Riftwold alone, with her mother is dead." 

"Her mother…" Frances Hern sniffed heavily, and a floodgate burst. Her tone was not confiding so much as accusatory, but she spoke on and on. "We were going to live together, did you know that? When we were girls at school. We planned it all out. She would breed horses, and I would do the whole village's accounts—always had a head for numbers—and we could have our little cottage…" She tucked her perfectly coifed hair more securely behind her ear in a gesture that seemed an echo of the girl she had been. "Well, even an old bachelor like you must have some idea how intense friendships between girls can be, at that age—" She cut off, frowning fiercely. "We had it all planned, and then Mrs. Welles—" Another angry pause. "—she put paid to all that childishness. She had other ideas for Dolly's future." 

"Parents do often think they know what is best for their children," said Mr. Satterthwaite quietly. "And they can sometimes be very wrong." 

"Perhaps," said Miss Hern. "But I've seen things and met people I wouldn't have otherwise, and Dolly—" She looked up at the house standing above them. The play of morning light had softened its ugliness slightly. "The place is hardly a place at all, and the house is an eyesore, of course. But still, I think Dolly belongs to it. She is a lady—you must feel it, when you look at her. Truly a lady, down to her fingertips. She needs a place like this to bustle about in." A hard glitter of unshed tears stood in her eyes. 

Mr. Satterthwaite let a few seconds of silence trickle by. He felt for Miss Hern, but more strongly, he felt satisfaction at having been right. Speaking offhandedly, he said, "You must tell me if I am meddling, but I have a strong impression that Mrs. Unseld could use—a companion, now that her mother is gone."

Angrily, Miss Hern said, "She hasn't said a word, if that's so." 

"I think she is afraid to," said Mr. Satterthwaite gently. "You have taken such a dislike to the house, you know." 

"Oh, the house!" Miss Hern gave a faint, mirthless laugh. "That is a psychological freak of mine, no doubt. An irrational grudge." 

The house Edward Unseld had bought and Mrs. Welles had lived in: not so irrational, Mr. Satterthwaite might have called it. 

Jaggedly, Miss Hern said, "I could learn to love it, for Dolly's sake, queer old house that it is. Only—only it is so late to be starting out."

And there, thought Mr. Satterthwaite, was the crux of the matter. "And yet you are in danger of letting it grow later still. I do understand, I think. Each of you has been afraid to find the other—changed. You have been frozen in inaction, which I believe is a rare and unpleasant state for you, Miss Hern. Is it not time to act?" 

A rapid change came over Miss Hern. She squared her shoulders and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked at Mr. Satterthwaite mistrustfully but said nothing. He understood what was happening—having spilled her soul she now resented the evidence of it. 

"Only think about it," Mr. Satterthwaite finished. Then he stood, gave his old fashioned little bow, and went back into the house. He liked Miss Hern the better for having wasted no words pretending to feel sadness at Mrs. Welles's death—sentiments unbecoming to both of them, to be sure, but Mr. Satterthwaite's Victorian sensibilities had headier stuff to lay at his doorstep. Certainly it was not the behavior of the ideal guest to invite in his immortal lover for an assignation.

This rather bold thought occupied Mr. Satterthwaite's attention until he met Dorothy Unseld at the side door. She was dressed in worn but well-made tweeds and muddy boots. She had removed her hat and was shaking twigs out of her fine, silvery hair, laughing quietly to herself. Seeing her, Mr. Satterthwaite had a peculiar feeling of double vision that he could not quite account for. He had seen—surely he had seen something. It would come back to him in a moment. 

_A lady,_ he thought, remembering Miss Hern's words. Then, with wry amusement, he remembered that he had himself described her as a princess. _After all, why not?_

"I do hope you were all right getting back so late last night," she said pleasantly when she saw him. "Hill says he cannot recall you coming in, but here you are." 

Mr. Satterthwaite assured her that he had not suffered. Less certainly, but with equal aplomb, he assured her that Hill had carried out his duties unimpeachably. Mrs. Unseld made no mention of a handsome visitor. In his quiet, curious way Mr. Satterthwaite had already ascertained that Mr. Quin's coat and hat had vanished along with him and the storm. 

"You would think a herd of elephants had been let loose upon the grounds," Mrs. Unseld said conversationally, leaning against the doorframe as she swapped her boots for clean shoes. "It's that much of a mess. Weeks of work—I shall like being busy, but it is too bad, with Frances here." Her brow creased. 

Mr. Satterthwaite was delighted with this opening. "I have already spoken to Miss Hern this morning," he said. "I found her very understanding about the repairs you will need to carry out. I believe she would enjoy hearing about your work about the grounds." He paused, then after some thought, added, "She is interested in your life here." 

"Is she," said Mrs. Unseld faintly. They walked together into the house, and she turned to face him with an odd, distant smile. "Mr. Satterthwaite, you are a meddler." 

"What did you bring me here for, my dear, if not to meddle?"

In an abruptly serious voice, Mrs. Unseld said, "I've always thought Frances despised me a little for being—weak, or pliant, or whatever you like. You see I really am so dutiful—perhaps that _is_ weakness. I've been deathly afraid of speaking—and of being refused. I do not think I could stand it." She gave a quavering laugh. "You have always been so good at figuring people out. Last we met, you arranged matters very prettily between Lord Earnshaw's butler and housekeeper—don't deny it."

Mr. Satterthwaite gave a modest disclaimer that his interference had scarcely been necessary—but he was pleased.

"Well—then let us say I wanted you here for courage." Mrs. Unseld took a deep breath. "I have decided. I am going to ask Frances to live with me." She looked at Mr. Satterthwaite expectantly, her dark eyes wide.

"That is wonderful, Dorothy," he said warmly. "I wish you both the best of luck."

In the afternoon Masters came for him with the car. Mr. Satterthwaite had, not intentionally, seen and heard enough to be satisfied that everything had been settled in the most agreeable way between Mrs. Unseld and Miss Hern. Driving away from Riftwold, he felt quite pleased with his stay there. It paid to be a meddler, if one did it well. 

There was sort of burr in his mind that he tried to work out when they stopped to eat at a reliable inn. Something he had said to Frances Hern: _Parents do often think they know what is best for their children_. It felt unfinished to him. He walked about, staying close to the car, and it came to him: _And sometimes they find they have been wrong, and regret it._

Now why should he think of that? 

For a moment he heard a distant din of horses and hounds and wild voices calling, as of a hunting party passing. In the next moment all was still and silent. But in Mr. Satterthwaite's mind the passing left a thrilling peal of memory, and the vision of a shining road.


End file.
